Kingship
by apprentice wordsmith
Summary: Éomer and Éowyn have a heart-to-heart shortly after the end of the war. No slash, sex, profanity, or violence. Now with part two- Éomer gets more advice- this time from Aragorn.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I give you my latest little fanfic, published to celebrate the release of my most recent original fiction (See my profile for details). This will be a two-parter; the second half is nearly finished.

Kingship- Chapter One

Éowyn wound her way through the camp, drawn by the firelight, the noise and laughter of celebrating men. And much they had to celebrate. The Dark Lord was defeated, the king of Gondor returned, and they had survived.

The proper Gondorian matrons of the Houses of Healing would have been appalled that she went abroad alone at night. But she was a woman of Rohan, not a sheltered child, and the dagger at her belt proclaimed her right to visit her brother in camp if she chose.

Talking of Éomer, there he was, sitting by the fire, looking both weary and amused at his friend Éothain, who was singing a rather rude song as he draped one arm over Éomer's shoulders.

She accepted a cup of ale from one of the men and claimed a sawn log for her seat, smiling at the dull roar of laughter and song that ebbed and flowed through the crowd. The Houses were peaceful, and she needed a bit of peace after the last few years, but she'd grown to miss the company of fighting men. Their stories were more interesting, to be sure. One of them, Alford she thought his name was, had stood up in front of the others and was telling of how his beloved king Théoden had fought the mûmak on the very field upon which they now stood.

It was a compelling tale. Too much so, if Éowyn was being honest. Alford had a gift for speech and song, and he wove a description of the fight so vivid that Éowyn could see it in her mind's eye- the great gray beast facing down a lonely figure on a white horse, her uncle's sword raised aloft as he cried out a defiant challenge, his narrow escape from the falling beast once he and his men had dispatched it.

Dear uncle. She loved him so, fretted over him when he was under the wizard's spell, watched him ride to war while she was bursting with pride and burning with envy. Defended him as he lay dying. Wept over his body until the darkness claimed her. Éowyn blinked, allowing tears to roll down her face, unashamed to weep for a great man who'd died well.

Not everyone saw grief in the same way. Across the fire, Éomer was still and silent, arms resting on his knees, staring into the flames. Éowyn watched him rise and quietly leave, unnoticed and unremarked.

She might have gone back to listening to Alford's song, but something about her brother's face as he left made it impossible to enjoy the celebration. She waited a moment, then slipped away, worried by the flash of desolation that he'd been unable or unwilling to hide.

After a few increasingly anxious minutes of searching, Éowyn found him at the horse pickets, draped over Firefoot. Both man and horse rested one toe on the ground, and she would have thought him completely relaxed, even asleep, had one white-knuckled hand not been tangled in the horse's white mane.

She went to the horse's head so he wouldn't startle and leaned on his neck, looking at her brother. She couldn't see his face. "Tell me," was all she said, in the way they'd done as children, wanting to speak of their feelings yet not knowing how to begin.

He raised his head from Firefoot's withers and smiled faintly. "Hello, little sister. Did you follow me?"

"I saw you leave the celebration. Too many people for your comfort?"

He nodded. "Too much noise. Too much happiness. I don't begrudge them their joy. They _should_ be happy. The Dark Lord is dead and the king has returned. I-" He fell into silence.

"You're not happy?" she prompted.

"I am, but-" he broke off and ran one hand through his hair. "I can't explain it." There was a long pause. "I feel… empty. Drifting. Like a leaf on the wind." This time he looked at her. "All our lives, we were at war. All we had to do was survive. It was difficult, but it wasn't complicated. We rode from here to there; we fought; we buried the dead. We hated the enemy and praised the fallen for their courage.

"And we won," he said simply. "But- now what? What do we do now that there's nothing to fight against?"

"You're the king," she pointed out. "That keeps you busy."

"Busy with what? I don't know the first thing about kingship. None of my captains can advise me. I never had time to learn from my uncle after Théodred died and I became Second Marshal- even if I could have learned with the Worm whispering in his ear."

"You should talk to Lord Aragorn- Elessar, that is," she suggested.

"He's new to kingship, too," Éomer argued. "And Rohan is so different from Gondor. We might stumble upon the correct solutions, but only by accident. And I don't even know what I'll face when I return home. The dispatches say villages have been destroyed, horses driven off, people killed. I don't know how to rebuild a kingdom."

"I don't, either," she said, biting her lip. "But people have been building houses, breeding horses, and raising children since the beginning of time." She shrugged. "Perhaps all you have to do is, well, let them get on with it."

"Not very kingly of me," Éomer said dryly.

Éowyn patted his arm, then before he could think her grown soft, punched him lightly on the shoulder. "I gave you my advice. I don't know what else to tell you."

"I'm sorry. I know you're trying to help."

They stood in companionable silence for a moment, then Éomer asked, "Shall I bring you back to the Houses of Healing?"

"I hardly need an escort," she argued, unoffended by his concern.

"I know. But I've barely seen you since we rode out to the Black Gate."

She couldn't argue with that, and they slowly made their way back to the city, two anonymous figures in the dark, unremarked by any watchers and unintelligible by Gondorian ears.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Éomer mulled over his sister's advice for much of the night. Both parts of it. He couldn't quite believe that his people would allow him to sit by the wayside while they worked hard to rebuild Rohan. Surely they would want to see their king laboring alongside them in his own way. He could very easily believe they didn't want to see him thatching barns or shearing sheep, but to do nothing?

He shook his head wearily. It was late- or rather, very early- and he needed sleep. This sort of 'round and 'round thinking wasn't providing any answers, so he cast himself down on his cot and closed his eyes, thinking that he would visit his brother king in the morning. Even if Elessar didn't know what to do, he might know someone who did.

The next morning saw him ride up to the Sixth Level, leave Firefoot in the- in his opinion, mediocre- care of the Gondorian grooms, and find his way to Elessar's study. It was still early, and Éomer hoped to find the king unencumbered by the usual fawning councilors.

The king was very nearly alone, with only one guard outside the door and one servant within, arranging parchments on his master's writing table. As Éomer was announced and came into the room, Elessar gently dismissed the servant, who frowned but swept out of the room, taking ostentatious care that his dark robe didn't touch Éomer's boots as he passed.

"Good morning to you, too," Éomer muttered. He pitied Elessar, saddled with such helpers.

So it was with even more charity than usual that he greeted the king. At Elessar's invitation, he sat before the king's writing table and explained his troubles and Éowyn's suggestion.

Elessar listened attentively and when Éomer finished speaking, said, smiling gently, "Your sister is a wise lady. She's right. Keep your people safe while they rebuild, judge between claimants when they disagree, and stay out of the way."

"But they'll say I didn't help them in a time of need," he protested.

"There's a vast difference between abandoning your people and hovering over their every move," Elessar corrected. "Think of it this way: Who knows you best?"

He thought for a moment, running through the list of people in his head. "Éothain, I'd say. We've ridden together for years."

"But he can't have been by your side for every moment of your life from the time you were born."

"No. You're right." But who was closer to him? Who had been a better companion?

He frowned, thinking, until the king drew him from his meditation. "Éomer." Their eyes met. " _You_ know you best. Just as I know myself best, and Caranthir out there, guarding the door, knows himself best. You know the problems you face, the resources you can call upon. You know what you like and dislike. Your people are the same way. They know how many people live in the village, how many horses in each man's herd. They know not to build a house in _that_ particular low spot, because even though it looks sheltered from the wind, the rain water drains right to it and any house built on the site would be swimming for three-fourths of the year," Elessar rattled off, his eyes gleaming with mirth.

"And they won't like it if their king charges in and tells them to build a house there," Éomer finished the thought.

"Precisely. Your task is to keep them safe while they rebuild. Allow merchants to go peacefully in and out of the kingdom so people can trade for things they want. Sit in judgment when men disagree. Talk to them, that you might learn what they need, then be sure that you're not standing in their way of getting it."

"Is that how you'll rebuild Minas Tirith?"

"As much as possible. It's a little more difficult in a city- more people in a smaller area, so there are more opportunities for conflict. But they're not children. They don't need a mother, hovering over their every move. They need a father, advising his adult sons then letting them make their own decisions. If they have no say in the rebuilding process, they will have no interest in making that rebuilding process successful."

He nodded, but, "I can't leave them completely to themselves. My countrymen are mostly honest, but some might try to take advantage of the others."

"I agree. There's no need for you to take over their work, but watch your officials carefully, especially your quartermasters and the like. Anyone who might benefit from corruption and dishonesty. We can't be sure how far the Enemy infiltrated our bureaucracies- the Dark Lord had spies everywhere, some witting, others unwitting." The king's mouth turned down at the corners and his eyes were sad. Éomer had heard- only rumors- that Lord Denethor's court had been notoriously dishonest at the end, and wondering how many of those problems Elessar had inherited.

He, Éomer counted himself lucky that he had only Rohan to rule. A man's word was his bond in Rohan, and though he'd seen dishonorable men like the Worm causing havoc in his kingdom, those men were few, unlike the denizens of the intricate and ossified Gondorian court.

Elessar inclined his head and drummed his fingertips on the desk. _Tap-tap-tap_ , then silence. "What else?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What else is weighing on your mind?"

Well, he was here for advice, wasn't he? "Everything I once knew has been taken away. I'm not bored, but… I'm forever waiting, looking about me and listening for the cry that orcs are attacking and that I need to gather my men to fight them. It's very strange to realize that we're no longer fighting."

"What makes you think that?" Elessar said mildly. "Many of the Dark Lord's servants were destroyed, yes, but not all of them. They've been stunned by their master's defeat, but they shall cause enough trouble for you and I in the coming years. You said at our last meeting that you would soon depart for home- I advise you not to delay."

His heart increasingly longed for home, for the green fields and blue sky, so different from this crowded city of stone. "I plan to depart in two days. I'm sure there's work to be done at home, even if I'm not the one doing it."

Elessar's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Killing orcs is a different sort of work."

He couldn't argue with that. Too many skirmishes that left him sore and aching would have given the lie to any protest he cared to make. He vividly remembered the day after the Battle at the Black Gate- he'd nearly fallen on his backside when he tried to put his foot in the stirrup that morning. Lucky that Firefoot was well-trained and hadn't bolted while his master swore and hopped and finally heaved himself into the saddle in the most undignified manner. But Éomer didn't say any of that, only, "Killing orcs is the sort of work that I can do, and happily."

That time, Elessar smiled. "I wish you joy of it. And you will return this summer."

"I will."

"Will I see you again before your departure?"

"On that morning, if it's acceptable to you."

"It is. I'm always glad to see a friend."

And wasn't that a damning indictment of kingship. Éomer was suddenly very glad Elessar had given him some useful advice during their meeting, or he might have been tempted to throw it all over and go back to common soldiering.

But that would leave Rohan without a king. So he bid the king a good day and returned to camp, his thoughts no longer a whirl. He would return home and determine what needed to be done to set the kingdom in order, then find people to do it.

By the time he dismounted next to the horse pickets, he was already working out a schedule of days for judging disputes among his subjects. And wasn't that kingly thing to consider?

The End.

A/N: I've always thought that Aragorn, having spent so much of his adult life as a Ranger, and therefore alone and wandering, would have been a relatively hands-off king. He knows the value of self-reliance, and the pride and emotional investment that arise from successfully completing a task without help, so he'd been keen to offer that opportunity to his subjects as much as possible- and to advise Éomer in the same direction. I also think he'd be extremely introverted, and would have a lot of difficulty acclimating to the constant bustle of people in Minas Tirith. But that, as they say, is another story.


End file.
